


As You Wish

by chameleon_666



Series: Soft Among The Blades [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Pining, The Princess Bride References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:35:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleon_666/pseuds/chameleon_666
Summary: Since the invention of the kiss, there have been only five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.Or, Jaskier finally realizes what Geralt's spent months trying to tell him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Soft Among The Blades [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685620
Comments: 21
Kudos: 404





	As You Wish

**Author's Note:**

> A little Princess Bride inspired ficlet that I couldn't get out of my head last night. It's my first work for this fandom so please be gentle. Enjoy!

Jaskier was in no uncertain terms, damnably, ineffably, most inconveniently, in love with the Witcher. 

The bitch of the thing was that Witchers didn’t have feelings, and so he was cursed with his unrequited affection. He bore it like a heavy magnet chained round his neck, at once a torturously heavy burden he could hardly stand, and a beacon drawing him ever closer to Geralt. He was like a moon orbiting, unable to stay away for any real length of time. Sure, Jaskier would on occasion decide to quit. He’d say “Actually, I like this town quite a lot. I’ll stay for a while, I think,” or, “I’ve business to attend to elsewhere. What business? Well that’s not your concern, Witcher.” 

He’d stay away for a while, hoping he could forget the golden eyes and stark white hair, the set of his jaw and the way his shirts draped just so over his shoulders. There were women, sometimes - men more often - who did their best to help him forget. But Jaskier would play in bars and inns nearly every night, and what songs did he have to sing but those detailing the triumphs of Geralt of Rivia? Truth be told, there was nothing he’d rather sing about. But fuck, the constant reminders of every reason he loved him make it nearly impossible to move on. 

Despite the pain he felt, he always went back. That magnetism again, it was like Jaskier had a sixth sense. Some part of him could feel when he’d wandered back into Geralt’s orbit. 

Before long he’d find Geralt’s camp, or walk up to him in a bar, and say something like, “Have you missed me?” 

Geralt would meet him with a “Hmm.” and then, “You’re back.” 

Jaskier’d ask if he might share his room, or tent, or whatever the case may have been, and Geralt would say, “As you wish.”

Always the same.

Only lately there had been a sort of evolution of the usual script. The ‘Hmm’ was more passably a purr than a growl, seeming to come from a warm place between his lungs rather than the usual guttural tear from his throat. His gaze was different, too. There was a sort of softness in his hard, gold eyes. It hadn’t been there before, certainly not when Jaskier had first started following him around like some foolish, lovesick pup. 

It might have been something like relief, if Witchers could feel things like that. 

Politeness, maybe, was more apt. Geralt was gruff at the best of times, but the fact was Jaskier’s skillful song had done a great deal in improving the Witcher’s reputation. He received more contracts, and was paid more fairly for them since Jaskier had become his adventuring companion. Perhaps he felt bare civility was owed to the bard - which, true - but he certainly wouldn’t have minded a little more. The odd, “How was your day today, Jaskier? Have I mentioned your hair looks particularly lovely in the evening light, Jaskier? Will you please let me plow you into a mattress, Jaskier?” really would have gone a long way. 

It was unrealistic, and he knew it. A pipe dream that he tried to only entertain alone at night. It crept into his mind more often than he liked, though. When they walked together, Geralt atop Roach, riding slowly enough that Jaskier could comfortably keep up. When he strummed his lute by a campfire and Geralt hummed along with the notes quietly and clumsily. He missed half the pitches and had no sense of rhythm, but it was unbearably sweet that he tried. He knew Geralt would never admit to liking his music aloud, but that little bit of humming let him know it was in fact appreciated. And it was enough to send poor Jaskier reeling. 

He’d begun to experiment with returning Jaskier’s small pieces of affection as well. Touching his lower back when he passed as Jaskier did him, rinsing his hair when they bathed in streams, things like that. He didn’t resist or grumble so much anymore when Jaskier insisted on tending his wounds. He chalked it up to the Witcher simply getting used to having him around.

There was a sense of routine to be found in all of it. It was a routine they’d kept up for a couple of years now. A back and forth of travel, Jaskier running away, can I share your room, as you wish. 

And though they were always in a different place, that short exchange was starting to feel like home. Geralt was starting to feel like home. It was terrifying to care so deeply for a person who did not and could not reciprocate. 

Sometimes, just sometimes, Jaskier thought maybe it wasn’t true. He saw the way Geralt put so much care into the handling and grooming of Roach. He would feed her apples, rubbing her velvet nose and telling her stories. He loved the horse. He even smiled at her. There was no way it was anything but love. A different kind of love than Jaskier was after, granted, but love nonetheless. 

There was no denying that Geralt’s prickly attitude had softened a great deal where the bard was concerned. Whether love had anything to do with it, Jaskier was conflicted. Sometimes he would snarl “Shut up, Jaskier,” in a dangerous way. Sometimes he would say “As you wish,” and share his room, his tent, his meal, anything. 

The phrase had, in recent months especially, become a favourite of Geralt’s. Affirming grunts and “Hmm.” s had been largely replaced by it. Jaskier had come to crave hearing it, the softly uttered phrase, which seemed to be more heavily loaded each time it escaped his lips. He would ask for things he didn’t even really want just to hear it. Geralt hardly ever refused him. 

Jaskier had only been away two weeks this time, a record low for him. He usually made it at least a month before the magnet pulled him in again. 

Geralt’s camp was in a clearing in a mossy wood, evening light filtering in greenish through the leaves and cool autumn air tickling the tip of Jaskier’s nose. 

Jaskier sat next to him on a protruding tree root. He sat close, maybe too close. Their knees and shoulders ghosted against each other.

“You’ve come back to me,” Geralt said, his voice gruff as always.

“Have you missed me? You must be going insane without your bard,” he said, “Don’t know what you do without me, quite frankly.”

Geralt hummed, and that touch of what could be relief had found its way from his eyes to his voice. 

“So I thought I ought to come back, make sure you aren’t in too much trouble,” Jaskier continued, “And if there’s enough to spare,” he wet his lips just barely, in anticipation, “I might share your dinner.”

Geralt gestured to a hare roasting over the campfire, matching the one he was picking clean.

He waited just a beat too long before he spoke, and the words came out almost choked.

“As you wish,” he said.

Jaskier could hardly breathe. There was something there. He wasn’t crazy, and he wasn’t imagining it. The Witcher felt something. In the tone of Geralt’s voice, the softness of it, there was almost a longing. Something said but not said. 

“And,” Jaskier took as deep a breath as he could manage, “Your tent, perhaps?” 

Geralt turned the full force of his honey gaze on him, and fuck, the sheer intensity of it was enough to bring him almost to tears.

“As you wish,” and it was barely above a whisper. Geralt’s gravelly voice was almost unbearably soft, and Jaskier had never seen his posture so relaxed. 

Something said, but not said. 

Geralt had never been a master wordsmith. He was quiet and sullen, but what little he did say was always carefully considered and laced with meaning. No words ever wasted, no superfluous turn of phrase ever escaped his lovely lips. 

Jaskier knew this, had observed it long ago. With that knowledge, he couldn’t comprehend how he’d been so daft as to not realize that when Geralt was saying “As you wish,” what he really meant was “I love you.”

His mouth was open, he was staring baldly at Geralt. Geralt broke eye contact after only a few seconds, something in his eyes uncomfortable and vulnerable. He discarded the remains of his supper, rubbing his hands on his trousers to rid them of the grease. 

“There’s a town about a day and a half’s travel from here, livestock are going missing,” Geralt said, guarded now, “It’ll be messy.”

“I’ll get a song out of it, I expect,” Jaskier replied.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier noticed then that Geralt’s black shirt clung strangely to one spot on his chest, and that he was taking care to move gingerly. 

“Have you got yourself hurt again?” Jaskier demanded. He stood up, in front of Geralt. 

“Hmm.”

“Well go on then, let me see. I’ve just stocked up on bandages,” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, staring insistently down.

Geralt didn’t meet his gaze, but pulled his shirt collar to the side, exposing the fresh, angry wound. 

Jaskier tried not to wince. 

“I’ll clean it and dress it for you?” he said, moving to retrieve the supplies from his bag. 

“As you wish,” As you wish to take care of me, I wish to be taken care of. The meaning shone through clear as day now. 

Jaskier moved closer, kneeling before Geralt and pulling his shirt out of the way. Geralt parted his knees so Jaskier could get nearer. Jaskier obliged, moving in so close that he could feel the heat coming off the Witcher’s body, inhaling his familiar scent. 

He had to focus. Geralt was hurt, Jaskier was helping. That was all. He wet a piece of cloth with his waterskin, and dabbed at the bloody gash. He followed with a salve, delicately applying it to the skin with the tip of his ring finger. The medicinal tea tree smell burned sharply in his nose. He wrapped it then, and when he was done let his hand rest against Geralt’s chest.

“Good as new,” Jaskier said, and moved to pull his hand away.

Geralt stopped him. He grabbed his wrist and held it in place.

“Thank you,” he said, “You- you’re good at that.”

It took Jaskier a moment to find his voice, which, fuck that was saying something. He was a nervous talker, but now even he had trouble getting words out.

“You protect me,” he finally said, “You take care of me, you’ve made me famous.”

He looked Geralt in the eye, “It’s the least I can do, what with you being so kind as to put up with me.”

Geralt looked away, “Is that what you think? That I only tolerate you?”

He had thought that, admittedly, until very recently. Jaskier shrugged. 

“Stupid bard,” Geralt growled, and then his big, calloused hand was grasping at the back of Jaskier’s neck. He thumbed over his cheek, his gold eyes searching, asking, pleading, yearning. 

Butterflies fluttered in Jaskier’s gut, his heart thrumming hard enough that Geralt could probably hear it loud as a drum. 

Then Jaskier rose to meet Geralt’s lips, and the world fell away. 

Geralt hummed, the relief plain now as his whole body sagged against Jaskier. He leaned into the kiss, almost ferocious in his wanting, his desperation.

He’d wanted this for a long time.

Jaskier didn’t know how he could’ve been so blind. 

He melted under Geralt’s steady hands, giving himself over completely. 

Since the invention of the kiss, there have been only five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.

When they finally parted, Jaskier, light-headed and grinning, stared up at his Witcher with adoration.

“Will you do that again?” he asked.

A smile played at Geralt’s lips, and he uttered, “As you wish.”


End file.
